“Would you mind calling that hansom for me?” He looked at it critically and shook his head. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. “You’re not a man for me—not one of a sex, I mean. It was locked. Died short, I suppose, and the girls had to shift for themselves. Too damned chickenhearted to confess to me he’d run off with the woman.
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